


We're Bandaged Together

by yosgay



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-03 17:23:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19468612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yosgay/pseuds/yosgay
Summary: Everybody took hits for him, and the scars still make his stomach turn. And it’s their job, of course. It’s what they signed up for—but that line in the sand, it’s miles back now. They left it at the gates of Insomnia. Hell, they crossed it before they even left the palace.They haven’t been just aretinuein years. Love always complicates things, doesn’t it?





	We're Bandaged Together

**Author's Note:**

> this was my piece for the [ffxv celebration zine!](https://twitter.com/ffxvcelebration)  
> excited to finally be able to share it--this story still means the world to me.  
> here's to two years 🎉

When Noct thought of Ignis, he thought of holidays. 

Well, he really thought of lectures, mostly. But past all the nagging and meeting reminders, come winter, Noct could always count on finding just one more secret talent of his trusted advisor. 

Ignis the chef. Ignis the interior decorator. Ignis the party-planner. 

Noct pictured a step-stool up to the door of his apartment, Ignis hanging tinsel or little paper ghosts he bought himself. He remembered burnt fingers serving juicy medium-well dualhorn steaks, fresh with heaps of fried potatoes and fluffy rice, nothing green in sight. The gentle quiet of Noct in some foggy half-sleep, only awake enough to see Ignis pull a blanket over his shoulders and slip silently out the door, past new presents nestled under a postcard-perfect tree.

A guy could forget, sometimes. How many sides to the people he loved.

Mostly, it was just hard to reconcile that Ignis with this one.

Noct stood there, arms at his sides. Hands not balled. Fingers not twitching. Prompto was close at his back, iron grip on his arm the only thing grounding him. Every point of contact reminded him to straighten his spine, years of teaching shown in perfect posture. 

His face was a smooth mask of unbothered while Ignis took care of it. While everything was handled.

Blood pounded in his ears, nearly drowning out Ignis’s voice when he said, “I’m afraid his Highness’s schedule is full.” The group of guys were cowering in a corner when Ignis calmly folded his glasses into his breast-pocket, said, “Fortunately, mine is wide open.”

Ignis taught him how to act in times like those, and Noctis hated that more than anything.

And when Ignis came back, not a perfect hair out of place except for the blood on his split knuckles, smearing on Noct’s as he took his hands and calmly lead them out—Noct just breathed deep, and thought of hearty dinners, thought of restful sleep, thought of a single soft kiss on his forehead. 

* * *

If you asked Noct how he felt about Gladio, he might’ve given you some smart-ass answer about meatheads and bruised ribs.

If you asked again, Noct would say  _ maybe _ he’s not such a bad guy—only on his days off, of course.

And if you could read minds, you’d see a much different story. You’d see:

_ Not again not again not again nononoNO _ —

You’d see Gladio holding his eye with one hand while he holds Noct back with the other. Gladio’s blood spilling onto Noct’s face, drip-dripping down to stain the collar of his good dress shirt. Dark red on black just looks blacker, and Noct was just waiting for Ignis to yell at him about the stain. Thinking about the lecture he’d get, the punishment because it was the third ruined shirt that month and can’t he just take care of his things for once? Over this, Noct was looking forward to the yelling. To the pensive look Ignis got like he was solving a tough math problem, and like Noct was the patron saint of lost-causes.

Noct wished Ignis was there.

Wished that having someone else’s blood on him wasn’t getting so familiar.

If he thought about royal meetings, about his assignments, about laundry and training and midterms—maybe it would remove the stain and Gladio would be able to see with both eyes by the end of the day. If they hadn’t been late leaving the councilman's house, they wouldn’t have cut through the alley to take a short-cut. If Gladio hadn’t stayed to lay into him for dozing off, they’d have been home. And if Noct was a better prince, maybe this man wouldn’t have attacked them at all. 

Or maybe, then Noct would have been the one with a five-inch gash across his pretty, tabloid-ready face.

And maybe he would have deserved every stitch.

* * *

Sometimes Noct’s dad would ask him about Prompto, what made the two of them so close. The first thing that always came to mind was summer.

Hot, sticky days baking in the sun, chasing some bird or squirrel with a cheap digital camera. The ice-cold chill of the arcade A/C, sweat cooling on the back of their necks. That one week bored to death of video games and frozen pizza, them both stuck inside, the punishment for jumping into the citadel fountain.

It was all fondness with Prompto, the sort of feeling you get like every memory is sepia-toned and yellowing at the edges, even though they’d only known each other a couple years. The polaroids on Prompto’s fridge were still fresh as clean sheets, but as far as Noct was concerned, they’d been friends their whole lives. 

So when Regis asked, “What am I to make of this boy?”

Noct just shrugged and answered, “I think... he’s fun.”

That’s all he thought about—fun. And maybe he should have but he hadn’t thought of strength, or how Prompto was a lot more solid than he looked. He hadn’t thought of the crushing force of his whole weight, slamming into Noct’s side to push him out of the way of a lunging coeurl. Not the scream, guttural and desperate, when the huge, hulking thing’s jaws met the flesh of his chest and bit down. The kind of scream where you don’t have to see the injury to know how bad it is. 

And when Noct rolled over, kicking his way up and tripping over his feet to get to him, he watched its teeth tear through his shirt and rip straight down to bone. He watched Prompto thrashing, grabbing at its neck and clawing the ground, his mouth just a gaping hole in his face as he kept wailing. Noct’s sword was in its gut before he even told his hands to move. Pale freckles stood out like a rash as Prompto’s skin went sickly pale, blood spilling onto the rocky ground and framing his face like a halo.

And Ignis finished it off. And Gladio compressed the wound. But that time, for the first time, Noct wasn’t helpless. He exhausted a full round of potions, forced himself into stasis creating more—and it was enough. Prompto was cracking jokes again by the time they dragged themselves back to camp.

But Noct didn’t laugh. 

Didn’t even smile, dried blood still caked between his fingers.

And the color didn’t come back into Prompto’s face for two days. 

He’d be alright, Ignis said, and Noct believed him—but potions couldn’t replace fluids. So Prompto cleaned his gun and hummed jingles. He snapped pictures and set the table, all while he was the color of month-old raw chickatrice. He was fine, really. Don’t worry about it, it’ll wear off, Noct. And, “Oh this? It’s nothing,” he’d said. “Just a cool new battle scar.”

A battle scar.

A thin, white crescent stretching rib to shoulder, peeking out from the straps of his tank-top. Barely a ghost, after all those potions did their work. 

It seemed wrong that a scream like that, still ringing in Noct’s ears, should’ve left a mark so small.

* * *

And now, dripping sweat and blood, breathing in the stale, dry air of the keep, Noct’s thinking of all those times they took a hit for him. 

He runs a hand along the wall—the cold metal drains his body heat like a leech, like the air here drains his spirit. And it’s gotta be running on empty that’s filling his mind with nothing but curses and blasphemes, because Noct knows in his heart that he belongs to Eos. He belongs to his people and his city; his life is the Gods’ to claim. So it’s dangerous, more dangerous than the daemons stalking him now, how willing he is to spit in the face of all six Astrals if it means getting them back. He’d take the edge of every sword Bahamut has to bear if it means that Prompto, Ignis and Gladio will all walk out of here alive. 

Even without him. 

His father told him stories, when he was young. His eyes were soft, shining too bright when he spoke of his retinue, and the true bond of a royal guard. Cid’s face was a mirror of the King’s when he’d called them his brothers. He missed the mark a little on that one, and they’d all laughed about it later—Noct didn’t understand, back then. Now it boils over in his chest like the lava of Ravatogh, and every word scalds his skin as it overflows. 

Now Noct’s smart enough to know a warning when he hears one.

They’ve been protecting him, all this time. It used to be that Noct resented them for that. They spent years drilling him, making sure he could stand on his own two feet—but always stood in front of him. Everybody took hits for him, and the scars still make his stomach turn. And it’s their job, of course. It’s what they signed up for—but that line in the sand, it’s miles back now. They left it at the gates of Insomnia. Hell, they crossed it before they even left the palace.

They haven’t been just a  _ retinue _ in years. Love always complicates things, doesn’t it?

Because right now, he’s not thinking about the shooting range where Prompto passed with flying colors. He’s not thinking of the Shield’s Oath, or the weeks Ignis spent through the ringer to pass his advisor’s exam.

No, none of that. In the frozen air of the abandoned base, he’s thinking of warm arms around him. Surrounded by all sharp lines and hard metal, there’s the ghost of gentle hands on his back. Every cold night in the tent with each other for warmth. Every kiss they shared, alone or together—and the night they found out that it didn’t have to be just one of them. 

That in a life sworn to serve, they could all choose each other. 

Yeah, Noct used to resent it—but he’s ran gentle fingers over every scar they’ve got, and now he just wants a chance to make it even.

And when Noct puts on the ring and feels fire lick its way up his neck and settle behind his eyes, he does it for them. He does it for the blood dripping down Gladio’s face. The blood on Ignis’s knuckles. Prompto’s blood caking his hands. He feels the magic replace in his veins, and he knows he’d spill it all for them if he had to.

When this is all over, he just might—but at least this time, Noct can finally protect them.

**Author's Note:**

> i memorized your pain,  
> i put my thoughts inside your name;  
> little light, can't you see?  
> you're supposed to be the one who buried [me.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BUbS-Mgwo00)  
> 


End file.
